The Misanthropes
by allthingsdecent
Summary: House and Cuddy's relationship, as seen through the eyes of his elderly neighbor.


**Me again! (It's feast or famine with me, huh?). This fic came from a yet another prompt from Princess Rainbow Puke (she's on fiyah!): House and Cuddy's relationship, as told through the eyes of his neighbor. It's a little sad. But I hope you enjoy it all the same. -atd**

September 15, 1998

Dear Fred-

A new gentleman moved into the building today.

He's very handsome—rugged, you might say, with the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen on a man.

He walks with a cane and something about the position of his body, and the way he looks down at the cane as though he's surprised it's there, I'd have to guess it's a relatively new affliction.

That might explain the sadness, too. He has an air of melancholia about him that is unmistakable.

All the single women in the building are in a tizzy over him, but I have a feeling they are barking up the wrong tree. I recognize a fellow loner when I see one.

'Til next time my love,

Jean

October 1, 1998

Dear Fred-

I have learned more about the mysterious new neighbor. His name is Gregory House and he's a doctor at the hospital where I got my hip replacement last year. They say he's some kind of genius.

He plays piano. Sad stuff—blues and minor-key jazz. I can hear the music through my walls (so much for the landlord's promise of those walls being soundproof!) but I don't mind. I like it.

I was right about him being a loner—he's always by himself. A few of the women in the building have tried to flirt with him, he seems singularly uninterested. He looks at them like they're ridiculous. I suspect he doesn't suffer fools. (Man after my own heart!)

He's also a fellow insomniac. I hear him puttering at night, pacing restlessly.

I feel like we could be friends, but I'm not quite sure how to approach him. Even misanthropes need someone to talk to, right, Fred?

'Til next time my love,

Jean

December 26, 1998

Dear Fred-

Success! I spent some time with the mysterious "House" (he told me that everyone calls him that, so House it is).

He's everything I hoped for—and more.

Let me tell you how it went.

He was alone, on Christmas. (On _Christmas_!) I was alone, too, mind you. But the fact that I'm Jewish slightly softens that blow.

So I made him some soup and mustered up the nerve to knock on his door.

He seemed surprised to see me—to see anyone for that matter.

"I made you chicken noodle soup," I told him.

"You're a little old lady," he said. "Shouldn't I be making _you_ soup?"

"Yes," I said. "But you never will, right?"

"Not a chance," he replied. There was a bit of mischief in his eyes already. He liked me.

"So here I am," I said.

"Thank you," he said, taking the soup.

"Of course, the soup comes with a catch," I added.

"The soup always does," he responded.

"I'd like to sit with you while you eat it. I'm old and lonely and I would enjoy your company."  
"No one enjoys my company," he said.

"Try me," I said.

So he let me in.

And Fred, what a hoot he was! Some people treat old people like we're intellectually feeble, or need to be coddled in some way. Not House. He seemed up for a good sparring match.

When I told him I was a retired philosophy professor, he nearly laughed in my face.

"Quite possibly the most useless degree in the world," he scoffed.

"How so?" I said.

"Teaching a bunch of privileged teenagers to naval gaze so they can grow up and, best case scenario, teach other privileged teenagers to naval gaze. And the wheels keep on spinning."

"You have something against naval gazing?" I teased.

"I have something against wasting time," he said.

"If a life spent contemplating the larger questions—moral, ethical, spiritual—of the universe is a life wasted, I'm happy to have wasted my life."

"Don't mind me," he retorted. "I just prefer living in the realm of provable things, forged through rational thought and scientific data."

"How terribly dull," I replied.

And he laughed.

"How's the soup?" I asked.

"It's terrible," he said. "But the company's not half bad."

I like this Dr. Gregory House.

Til next time my love,

Jean

February 10, 1999

Dear Fred-

I think House and I have become friends. We play chess sometimes (he always beats me soundly). He shares records with me. (We're both old-fashioned that way. Well, he's old-fashioned. I'm just old.)

He's asked me about my life. I told him about you, dear Fred, and how I miss you more every day.

He told me about his leg. I was right. A new disability. The result of medical malfeasance. He take pain medication—and lots of it. Does he realize that he's an addict?

He told me about his ex girlfriend Stacy. She really broke his heart, that one. He seems to think he'll never find love again. I told him that was nonsense. He was young, handsome, smart—a real catch! (It's okay to flirt with men when you're my age, Fred. It's seen as charming, somehow.)

"I don't like most people," he admitted. "And most people don't like me."

"So you don't have to marry them. What about a few dates? Dinner? A movie? You need to get out of the house more."

"Dating is too complicated," he said, with a shrug. "Feelings get involved. People get hurt."

"But what about sex?" I asked. "You're a healthy young man. Surely you want sex."

He raised his eyebrows. He seemed to think a woman my age had forgotten about the very practice.

"There are less complicated ways for a man to have sex," he explained.

"Ahhhh, you mean prostitutes."

He nearly did a spit take.

"Yes Jean. I mean prostitutes."

"Have you ever … employed one?"

"None of your business," House said, with a tiny smirk. Then he leaned across the board. "Checkmate."

Indeed!

'Til next time my love,

Jean

June 17, 2002

Dear Fred-

I finally told House that I thought he was a drug addict.

"This isn't heroin, Jean," he said. "It's vicodin. For my leg."

"It's a narcotic and you're clearly addicted to it."

"Why don't you stick to contemplating man's insignificant place in the universe and I'll stick to making assessments about the efficacy of my pain management," he said, not very kindly.

"I'm just worried about you," I said.

"I don't need your worry. Worry about yourself," he sniffed.

So obviously, _that_ subject is off limits.

'Til next time my love,

Jean

March 14, 2006

Dear Fred-

As far a I can tell, there are three people who visit House the most.

There's his best friend: Dr. James Wilson. At first, they seem like a total mismatch. Wilson (he also prefers to go by his last name. . . is this a young person thing?) is boyish, well-mannered, optimistic. But on further inspection, they make sense, they complement each other. Wilson's sincerity balances House's cynicism. And Wilson is smart as a whip, too. That's clearly a prerequisite for entering House's inner sanctum. (Glad I made the cut!)

More intriguing are the two women.

Both beautiful.

One has long blonde hair and a studious way about her. She reminds me of my old graduate students—earnest, wide-eyed, doting. She's clearly madly in love with him.

The other one is apparently his boss. Her I like. She has fire in her eyes, just like him. She's what you would've called "a hot little number." Incredible body that she knows how to show-off, but in a paradoxically classy way. A real woman. When they talk, I can sense the chemistry between them, even from my apartment. They're like characters in one of those snappy old Tracy/Hepburn movies we used to enjoy so much. She's the one I'm rooting for.

'Til next time my love,

Jean

November 11, 2008

Dear Fred-

A first in my friendship with House! He knocked on my door late last night.

"I saw the light was on," he said, as if he needed to explain himself.

He even brought a bottle of that sherry he knows I like.

"Come on in," I said.

I poured two glasses.

He seemed particularly sad. More so than usual.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said.

"Okay," I replied.

There was a long silence. We're comfortable in silence sometimes together, and that's just fine by me. I hate useless blather.

Finally, I said: "You went out again tonight. I heard your motorcycle. Where did you go?"

"I went for a ride," he said.

"Just a ride? Any place in particular?"

(He clearly wanted to tell me something. Sometimes he just needed to be drawn out.)

"I, uh, went to see a woman. But I pussied out."

Then he looked up, apologetically. "Sorry. _Wimped _out."

"No need to apologize to me, House. I'd be really fucking annoyed if you censored yourself around me," I said.

He laughed.

"Cheers to that," he said. And we clinked glasses.

"So this woman. . .the blonde ingénue or the sexy brunette?"

"The…sexy brunette," he said. Then he raised his eyebrows. "How do you even know about her?"

"Bored old lady. Thin walls. . . Good, I like the brunette."

"I like the brunette, too," House said.

"She's your boss, right?"

"Right. Dr. Lisa Cuddy. Light of my life. Bane of my existence. Fire of my loins. Etc, etc."

"Why bane of your existence?"

House laughed.

"She rarely gives me what I want—personally or professionally."

"She's got spunk."

"She does at that."

"And you're crazy about her."

He considered that for a moment.

"Yes, I am," he admitted.

"So what's the problem?"

"She, uh, experienced a personal loss recently. A child she was about to adopt, it fell through. So I went over to console her and one thing led to another and we, uh, kissed."

"Doesn't sound like you pussied out to me," I said.

"That was yesterday. Today all I could manage to do was drive by her house and stare through her window like a God damned peeping Tom. Not my finest hour."

"Rome wasn't built in a day, House. I think this is a good start."

"False start, more like it," he muttered, and he took a too-big gulp of his sherry.

My poor dear House. When he talks about this woman, I see the longing on his face. He really doesn't want to be alone. But he can be his own worst enemy at times. I see I still have some work to do.

'Til next time my love,

Jean

September 28, 2009

Dear Fred-

House is going through a bit of a rough time. It would seem that his demons have finally caught up to him.

He was briefly admitted to an institution, where they dealt with his addiction and more. He was having visions, it seems—literally haunted by his own past.

I do hope he's better now. I've seen him once since he got out of the hospital. He looks fit, freshly shorn, newly off drugs (thank God), ready to take on this new chapter in his life.

He has moved in with Wilson for a spell. It's probably for the best. Wilson can look after him in a way that I can't. I miss him terribly, of course. Who else will insult my life's vocation while playing chess with me over glasses of mediocre sherry and Duke Ellington records?

At least you're here with me, Fred, in spirit that is.

'Til next time my love,

Jean

October 11, 2010

Dear Fred-

Something remarkable has occurred! House has a girlfriend. Her name is Lisa Cuddy. Remember her? The hot little number?

He seems deliriously happy—although, once again, I seem to have lost my chess companion.

It's almost like a fairytale, Fred. He beat back his demons and, in the end, he won the girl.

I finally got to meet her, too.

She was leaving his apartment one day, just as I was coming home.

We literally crashed into each other in the lobby. She seemed to be in a rush—not unusual. She and House apparently had lots of fervent, carnal sessions in his apartment, mid-day.

Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was decadently messy, her lips swollen. (Oh, I remember those days well, dear Fred. Do you?)

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"Not at all. It was my fault, Lisa," I said.

She started a bit.

"You know my name?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Of course. I know a lot about you. I'm Jean Harnisch. I'm a friend of House's."

"He…uh…hasn't mentioned you."

"Does that come as a surprise?"

She smiled, knowingly.

"No, I suppose not."

"He talks about you quite a bit, though," I said.

The sense that she was distracted had passed. I had won her full attention.

"Oh really? What does he say?"

"That you make him happy."

She smiled, looked down in a shy sort of way, clearly pleased with this news.

"He makes me happy, too," she said, blushing a bit.

"He's an extraordinary man, that Dr. House," I said.

"That he is," she agreed.

"Like all extraordinary men, he can be extraordinarily difficult."

"Don't I know it," she said drolly.

"The question is: Are you up to the challenge, Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"

"I guess only time will tell!" she said, with an adorably self-effacing grin. I can certainly see why House loves this woman.

"Good luck, dear," I said. "I, for one, think you have both chosen wisely."

And I let her get back to work.

Til next time, my love.

-Jean

February 17, 2011

Dear Fred-

I see him less and less.

He rarely comes to the apartment, and when he does, it's usually to collect his mail or remove yet another sign of his former occupancy—his winter coat, his record player, that bust of Darwin he likes so much.

But it does the heart good to see him so happy. I've even seen him interacting with that adorable little girl of hers. He bends down to talk to her. He does funny voices. He makes her laugh. Together, they look like a . . . family.

"Hello stranger," I say to him one day, when we meet at the mailboxes.

"Hello Jean," he says.

"So do I dare say it? You're happy."

House looks down and spreads out his arms, as if inspecting himself for markings.

"Does it show? Is there some sort of physiological change?"

"Yes," I say. "It's positively written all over you."

He allows himself a tiny smile.

"I _am_ happy," he admits. "It's fucking terrifying."

"Don't be scared House. You deserve this."

"We both know that's patently untrue. But I will take as much of this happiness as I can get. Lisa Cuddy is like my new drug."

"It's dangerous to be addicted to a person, House," I warn.

"Too late, Jean. I'm already hooked."

"And the child?"

"I lucked out. She's a special kid. . . resourceful, funny. Not one of those insipid little kewpie dolls, like some other 3 year olds."

"She only seems special because you love her."

"Let's not get carried away, Jean."

"Of course not. Admitting that you love a child might violate your rep as cool guy. Especially around an 84 year old woman. We are known to value coolness above all else."

"I've missed you, Jean," he says, grinning at me.

"No you haven't."

"Put it this way, if there's _one_ thing I miss about my former life, it's you."

"High praise coming from you," I say. "Take care of yourself, House."

"You too, Jean."

Every time I see him now, I wonder if it will be my last.

Til next time, my love.

-Jean

March 24, 2011

Dear Fred-

Oh Fred, I did a stupid thing.

House and Dr. Cuddy seem to have had a fight—or worse. He's home now. And angry. He thrashes around his apartment. Things break. I hear cursing. He literally falls down drunk.

When I see him in the halls, his eyes are hooded. He doesn't look at me. His body is coiled, as though preparing for a fight. His misery is as palpable as his happiness once was.

I know better than to approach him when he's like this, Fred. Really I do. But I was so worried.

So I knocked on his door.

When he answered, I was practically blown back by the stench of alcohol on his breath.

"I. . .thought we might play chess," I said (lamely, I admit).

"Go away, Jean," he said. A warning. I should've have heeded it.

"Are you okay?" I pressed forward.

"I'm fucking great Jean. Never been better."

"What happened? Did you two. . . fight? Because I know it seems hopeless now but—"

"We didn't fight Jean. She dumped me. She came to her senses. We're through."

"I'm so terribly sorry, House."

"Yeah, you and me both, Jean."  
"Can I please come in, just for a few minutes?"

"That's not a good idea."

"I just think you shouldn't be alone right now. . ."

"What on earth makes you think that a lonely, pathetic little old lady is just what I need right now?" he screamed. "Why don't you go back to your fusty old apartment and just for once, leave me the fuck alone?"

I felt my heart pounding in my chest. I was shaking. No one had ever spoken to me like that. Never.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'll leave you alone."

"Good," he said.

And he slammed the door in my face.

I had tried to remove a thorn from the paw of the lion. But of course, it is the lion's nature to lash out in anger when he's in pain. I should've known better.

Dear Fred, what have I done? I fear that I've lost House's friendship for good. And what's more, I'm not sure I even want to it anymore.

It is with a heavy heart that I sign off tonight.

Til next time, my love,

Jean

March 25, 2011

Dear Fred-

The most extraordinary thing happened tonight.

House came to my door to apologize.

"I'm an idiot," he said. "You were just being a friend and I yelled at you. . .I'm ashamed of my behavior."

"You did hurt my feelings, House," I admitted.

"I don't think you're pathetic, Jean. I admire you. I respect your opinion. I value our friendship. You're one of the only people on this God forsaken planet that I do value. I just do this incredibly stupid thing where I hurt the people I care about. It's my fucking curse."

"You might say it's the curse of the people who love you," I said.

"Yeah," he said sadly. "That too."

He looked at me. His eyes were wide and pleading.

"I need to know you forgive me, Jean," he said. "I just can't have you hating me right now."

"I forgive you," I said. "It takes more than a few choice insults to get rid of this old broad."

"Thank God," he said, managing a small smile.

Then he thrust a container he had been holding toward me.

"A peace offering," he said.

Homemade chicken noodle soup.

Til next time my love,

Jean

April 15, 2011

Dear Fred-

We're back to our old routine of playing chess and listening to jazz music. I'm trying to get him to appreciate the classical a bit more. He likes the more intellectual music—Bach, Mahler, Schubert—but draws the line at the romantics.

"I can't stand that saccharine shit," he says. One wonders if his current romantic woes play a role in this opinion.

He's so sad, Fred. Much sadder than he's ever been—even worse than when I first met him.

I try to draw things out of him, but he doesn't really want to talk about Lisa Cuddy. He shrugs or grits his teeth or gets a far away look in his eyes when I mention her.

"It hurts like hell," was all he managed to say once, and I wasn't sure if he was talking about his leg or his broken heart. Probably both.

At least I'm here for him.

I keep telling him that she'll come to her senses. Take him back. He laughs and calls me a softy, a hopeless romantic.

"If she doesn't take you back, then she's not as smart as I thought she was," I say.

He smiles, just a tiny bit. Then he drubs me once again in chess. We've played 131 games of chess. I have won precisely zero times.

It's a wonderful, extraordinary thing. At my age, to have met a man as brilliant and complex and interesting as him. Despite a few dips in the road, my friendship with Gregory House has been one of the great gifts of the latter part of my life.

Oh well. I'm feeling a little sleepy for some reason. Going to lay my head down for a bit.

'Til next time my love,

Jean

########

Cuddy was doing one last round at the hospital before leaving for the evening, when she noticed House sitting in the waiting room of Geriatrics.

She strode up to him.

"What the hell are you doing here? Waiting for someone to die so you can steal their meds?"

He had been sitting with his head in his hands, deep in thought.

The minute he looked up, she regretted her cavalier comment. His face looked pained.

"I, uh, brought Jean here," he said.

"Jean?"

"My neighbor. The retired philosophy professor."

Suddenly Cuddy remembered. The nice, smart lady she had bumped into in the hallway. House's secret friend.

"Is she okay?"

House sighed.

"No. She's dying. In a coma. Unresponsive."

"Has her family been notified?"

"Her husband is dead. She has no children. I'm all she's got."

Cuddy sat down next to him. Put her hand on his. He was so shaken up, he didn't even pull away.

"House, I'm so sorry," she said.

He shrugged.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"No," House said. "There's nothing anyone can do."

"Can I sit with you for a bit?"

House looked at his watch.

"It's 8:30. I know the nanny's shift ends at 9 on Thursdays. Go home, Cuddy. I'll be fine."

She looked at him.

"I really am sorry, House."

She saw the muscles in his neck tense up. He swallowed hard.

"Thanks," he said.

#####

When she got to work the next morning, she immediately checked Jean Harnisch's chart. Time of death: 11:25 pm.

She went to go find House. He wasn't in his office or in the cafeteria or on the roof.

She found him in the park, sitting alone at a picnic table.

"Hi," she said, sitting down next him without waiting for an invitation. "I heard about Jean."

"Yep," he said gloomily. "This was the 'and then you die' portion of 'life sucks and then you die.'"

"I'm very sorry," Cuddy said. "I know how much she meant to you. And although I only met her once, it was clear that she adored you."

House gave a sad, fond smile.

"She liked you, too," he said. "Always did. She used to think that you and Cameron were engaged in some sort of battle royale for my affection."

Cuddy chuckled.

"Weren't we?" she said.

"She called you the sexy brunette," House said. "She used to say, 'I like the sexy brunette.'"

"And what did you say?"

He looked at her.

"I said, 'I like her, too.'"

Cuddy looked down at her feet.

House picked up a leaf off the ground. He spun it from its stem a few times and then began tearing it into tiny pieces.

"She never gave up on you and me," he said. "She insisted you'd come to your senses. I told her you already came to your senses, the day you dumped me."

"No House, it wasn't like that," Cuddy said.

House shrugged.

"Wasn't it?" he said.

Cuddy put a hand on his shoulder.

"So what's the next step?"

"For Jean?"

"Yeah."

"She's going to be buried next to Fred, her husband. I wrote her epitaph—approved long before she died, by the way: Devoted wife, contemplator of the universe, lousy chess player.'"

Cuddy laughed.

"Are you going to be okay, House?"

"I'm going to be fine," House said.

And he picked another leaf off the ground and began shredding it.

#####

Cuddy lay in bed that night thinking about House. House burying his friend Jean and writing her epitaph. House remembering the exact time that Rachel's nanny got off duty, even through his grief. House telling her about Jean's characterization of her as a "sexy brunette."

She hated seeing him so sad. She ached for him—an actual, physical ache.

His devotion to Jean had touched something in her, something long dormant, something she had refused to face: That she still loved him. Because Jean Harnisch was right. They _had_ chosen each other—years ago, really, long before they officially became a couple—and they had both chosen wisely.

She picked up the phone, dialed his number.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied, surprised.

"I feel like you shouldn't be alone tonight."  
"I'm always alone, Cuddy."

"No, you're not. You have me."

"Not anymore."

"Come over. Spend the night."

"Won't it be confusing to Rachel if she wakes up and finds me sacked out on the couch?"

"I'm not talking about the couch. . .I'm talking about sleeping in my bed—_our_ bed."

There was a long, stunned silence.

"Cuddy, what are saying here?"

"I'm saying that I've . . . come to my senses."

THE END


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